


The Watchmaker

by LizBee



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-15
Updated: 2006-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 01:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizBee/pseuds/LizBee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romana, after the Time War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Watchmaker

**Author's Note:**

> This was written early in 2006, and posted to my website shortly before "The Age of Steel". It effectively diverts from canon after "School Reunion", and should therefore be considered AU.

  
1

The infinite is in the finite of every instant.  
Zen proverb

  
"Cause and effect are linear concepts."

Her voice echoed against the metal walls. Spreadeagled on the floor, she could feel the drone of the ship's engines far below. If she concentrated on that rhythm, the pain in her head lessened.

The engines changed pitch moments later, but she didn't need machines to know they had entered the vortex.

Romana closed her eyes and gave herself up to time, but there was no relief from the pain.

"Cause and effect are linear concepts. They do not apply to Time Lords." She swallowed. "That is the Third Heresy."

She couldn't remember the First or Second Heresies, or the Fourth through to the Thirteenth. Why thirteen, she had wondered as a student, when there was an infinite number of misconceptions that could, if adopted by a Time Lord, destroy the fabric of existence?

Because thirteen, someone had told her once, was a nice, symbolic-looking number that appealed to tidy minds.

And after that, she hadn't given them a second thought, until now.

The Eighth Heresy was something about intervention in the affairs of lower races. The precise wording escaped her.

"The Lords of Time owe nothing-"

No, it was gone.

Romana opened her eyes and, with difficulty, focused on the ceiling, barely visible in the dim light. The surveillance devices were invisible to the naked eye, but it was unthinkable that she could have been left truly alone, unobserved by her captors or their slaves.

She closed her eyes again. If she concentrated, she would be able to stop her hearts - but she couldn't concentrate for the pain, and even if she could, she was almost certain that one of the injections had been a molecular stimulant that would make the process impossible. She had escaped that way once, many years ago. Not again.

They were, she conceded, very clever. She wondered if she had underestimated them, but no, carelessness was not among her sins. It was her trust in allies who had proven vulnerable, that was her mistake.

The pain was growing worse. That meant the slaves would come for her soon, pin her down with needles and drugs and rifle through her mind, supervised by their Dalek masters. Needles through her eyes, through her temples, opening her mind to their machines.

This would be the third session. She was beginning to lose hope that they would kill her when they had found the information they sought.

She felt the ship drop out of the vortex. Now the warp drives were disengaging, and she felt the landing thrusters activate.

She wondered where, and when, they had landed, and if this would mean any change in the routine to which she was reluctantly becoming accustomed.

But then she heard the approaching footsteps, the hum of the door sliding open, and the high-pitched voice of Slave Medic One-One-Seven saying, "We have been ordered to resume our work, Prisoner Ninety-Two."

"Cause and effect," breathed Romana, "are linear concepts. They do not apply to Time Lords." She smiled, although she didn't know why. "That is the Third Heresy."

2

The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.  
Shakespeare, Twelfth Night III.i

From: mickeyuk@gmail.com  
Sent: April 7, 2005 11:42 PM  
To: m.nichols@fastnet.co.uk  
Subject: blue box conspiracy???

word around is that you collect info on a man who travels around in a blue box and calls himself the Doctor. I have a story to tell, if you're interested. Trade?

M.

From: m.nichols@fastnet.co.uk  
Sent: April 10, 2005 4:14 AM  
To: mickeyuk@gmail.com  
Subject: Re: blue box conspiracy???

If I were you, I would think twice about relying on Google's privacy policy.

&gt; word around is that you collect info on a man who  
&gt; travels around in a blue box and calls himself the  
&gt; Doctor. I have a story to tell, if you're interested.  
&gt; Trade?  
&gt;  
&gt; M.

  
From: m1ck3yl33t@hotmail.com  
Sent: April 10, 2005 10:24 PM  
To: m.nichols@fastnet.co.uk  
Subject: how's this?

better, yeah?

  
From: m.nichols@fastnet.co.uk  
Sent: April 11, 2005 4:45 AM  
To: m1ck3yl33t@hotmail.com  
Subject: Re: how's this?

Acceptable. I'll contact you again shortly.

&gt; better, yeah?

*

Mickey Smith scratched his head and admitted, "I'm a bit new to this."

"Yes. I guessed that much."

"I work in a garage, mostly. But my girlfriend sort of vanished, and there was this man--"

"The Doctor."

"Yeah. All sorts of crazy stuff. Store dummies going mad. Living plastic. And she left, with him." His shoulders dropped, making him look much younger. "That was a couple of months ago. Been taken in for questioning three times already."

"And you took over Clive's website." She kept the disapproval out of her voice. Better to let the site die, in her opinion, but she was hardly in a position to criticise. No one had forced her to reply to his email or arrange this meeting.

"Well," said Mickey at last, "someone had to."

"Yes. I suppose one might take that position."

"Mary-Ann-Ms Nichols, I mean - I kept hearing your name. All over the internet. Took me weeks to find you, and now you're sitting in a park like it's a cheap spy movie, and you obviously know stuff. Tell me. Please." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "What is he?"

The woman calling herself Mary-Ann Nichols looked at her fingernails and said, "I've never really been able to find out. He travels in a police call box. Sometimes alone, sometimes with one or more people. He's unpredictable."

"Dangerous, I've heard."

"Probably. Most things are."

"He said - he told Rose it travels in time. The blue box."

"There's some evidence for it."

"This can't be real." He sounded like a child, released unawares into an adult world without warning or knowledge, or protection. This was the time for reassurances of security and comfort. Men didn't travel around in obsolete telephone boxes, not through space and certainly not time. The girlfriend would come back of her own accord, or she wouldn't, and no one would really notice either way.

Come to think of it, she wasn't very good at platitudes.

"It would be safest if you let it go," she said.

"Or what? The government'll come after me? Or," his eyes narrowed, "are you government?"

"No," she said. "I make watches, actually. It's pretty innocuous. But this work you're doing - it attracts attention. If not the government-"

"Maybe it might be the Doctor coming after me, is that what you're saying?"

"Perhaps the Doctor. Perhaps something worse."

"Yeah. Thanks." Mickey stood up, hands in his pockets, face sullen.

She fed her lunch to the pigeons as she watched him walk away.

On her way home, she saw a yellowed piece of paper pinned to a telephone pole, half-concealed by newer posters and notices about missing pets. She pulled the paper away, ripping a corner, and examined the grainy black and white photo of a teenage girl with big eyes and a wide smile. Have you seen Rose?

She crushed the paper into a ball and threw it away.

*

Her name was not Mary-Ann Nichols. Nor was it Anna Chapman, which was the name currently gracing her driver's license and passport. She called herself Anna because she liked the sound of it, and because she had once known a girl by that name. The original Anna had been the youngest nurse at the Charitable Asylum. She had been kind, in an unthinking way, and only the Director and Matron called her 'Sister'. She served as a nurse in France, and died in 1918 of the Spanish 'flu.

Chapman came from the page of newspaper she had found a few days after being admitted to the Charitable Hospital. Little of it had made sense at the time, aside from the date – September 8, 1888 – but she had remembered the name. 'Anna Chapman' had existed for nearly ten years, now. Soon, she decided, she would have to find the money to create a new alias. They didn't come cheap anymore. It was a shame, but that was progress for you.

She watched the pigeons fight over the last bit of bread, and set off for home, a flat above a tiny shop in an unfashionable Islington street. The flat had come with the shop; she mended watches, and sometimes made clocks. She was good at it. And she had a pleasant, unremarkable face, and few people stayed in the area long enough to pay attention to a quiet neighbour, or to notice how very slowly she aged.

But it was impossible to escape the world's attention entirely, and the evening after she met Mickey Smith, she received a visit from UNIT. Major Ben Keene, was considerably less attractive than he apparently believed, and infinitely less charming. He was a public relations man, frequently appearing in the media with a smile and a line of deceptions.

"I suppose you've been reading my email again," she sighed as he pushed past her into the shop.

"My analysts tell me it's become rather dull the last few years." Keene leaned over her workbench to finger an Edwardian pocket-watch.

"I could subscribe to a mailing list, if you like. A vocabulary word of the day, maybe?"

"Wouldn't do, I'm afraid. The analysts will tie themselves in knots trying to find a secret code. Nice boys, but too imaginative by half. I say, that's rather nice, is it valuable?"

'That' was a grandfather clock with a dull, majestic tick.

"It's not for sale."

"It doesn't keep the right time."

"No, but it's usually right three or four times a day." Anna gave him her brightest smile. "Would you like a cup of tea, Major?"

"I was afraid you weren't going to ask."

"Nonsense. That would have been rude."

Settled upstairs in a worn armchair with a cup in his hand, he said, "How was young Smith?"

"Harmless. Rather sad, I thought. His girlfriend runs off with a stranger, he becomes obsessed with proving there's a conspiracy at work."

"The police think he killed her." Keene sounded cheerful at the prospect.

"He didn't seem the type."

"Had an honest face, did he?"

"I don't think I trust honest faces. And I don't waste time pretending to indulge misguided suspicions."

"Really?" A grin flashed across Keene's face, highlighting laughter lines around his eyes. "Seems like you've wasted a lot of time this last century."

Anna became still.

"How many names is it now? Four or five? In one hundred and ten years?"

"One hundred and seventeen," said Anna before she could stop herself. "Come September."

"Ah. Well. I must say, it's a bit gruesome, stealing the names of the Ripper victims."

"Is it? I'm afraid you're the first person to notice, Major Keene."

"That's the problem with people these days. No one notices anything." He paused. "Useful for us, of course. Would you like a job?"

She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"You spent thirty years collecting every scrap of information about the Doctor, and probably came across a lot of other data long the way. Useful, that. UNIT's always looking for good staff, and at least you won't have hysterics in the first briefing."

"Your predecessor made a similar offer, you know."

"Yes, and probably the fellow before him."

"It was a woman, actually."

Keene waved a hand dismissively. "We might even be persuaded to overlook your former hobby."

"If you were really worried about that, you'd have done something about it long ago. Upgraded your firewalls, perhaps." Anna stood up. "I'm terribly sorry, Major, but I can't accept. I let the Doctor go nearly ten years ago. It's all in the past."

"Can never go home again, eh?" Keene sounded resigned, which was not in the least bit deceiving, but at least he was desisting for now. "Oh well. I'll leave a note for the next fellow. I'll show myself out, thanks. Lovely to see you again."

She sat very still after he was gone, and fancied that she could feel the planet humming beneath her feet. The sound of her double heartbeat was loud in her own ears.

3

Time turns the old days to derision.  
Swinburne, Dolores

  
The old dreams returned that night, and every night that followed for a month: fire and desperation, metal beneath her skull and an eternity of nothingness, pinned beneath glass.

It was dark when she woke up, and raining. She had slept for six hours, much more than usual. The lost time nagged at her like a half-remembered song, and she had a dull headache behind her eyes.

Parts of the dreams were true, but she looked in the mirror on the morning of the fourth of October, and told herself that she was flesh and bone, not metal. She surveyed her features. Her weariness was not evident, except in her eyes. Dull blonde hair, blue eyes, small chin; she had seen this face every day for as long as she could remember, but there were still moments when she felt like she should look like someone else. Taller, darker, more imperious.

She turned away from the mirror and went to find something to do.

Compulsively, she checked her email, the old Mary-Ann Nichols account. Empty. She hadn't really hoped-well, perhaps she had, but against her better judgement.

She worked for an hour on an old pocket watch that was half as valuable as its owner believed, but her hands were unsteady and the light was poor. She gave up in the end, and returned upstairs. The grandfather clock rattled ominously as she passed it.

The linen cupboard was small and smelt faintly of mothballs, and the false back was perfectly concealed, even in full daylight. It held very little, just two boxes of papers and a handful of floppy disks and CD-Roms. The oldest papers were yellowed and stiff with age, and she wondered if they would last another decade. Not that it mattered; Philip had given them to her to be destroyed, but she had put the task off for so long that she was beginning to think of them as valuable rather than dangerous.

The cutting from the Times disintegrated as she unfolded it. Intact, it had reported that a young woman had been found in the wreckage of an accident on Hampstead Heath. Details about the actual accident were carefully omitted, possibly for secrecy, but probably because the newspapermen had no vocabulary to describe a time ship. Of the lady, it had simply been noted that she was well-spoken but distraught, and anyone who might have information about her name and family should write to Philip Brandon, Director of the Charitable Asylum...

It was all dust now, and she was the only one still alive to remember.

Philip's letters, too, were written on flimsy paper, yellowed and almost illegible. She could make out only a few words: …October 1888 … dear fellow … extraordinary patient … curious formulae and improbable science, most perplexing … undefinable logic beneath… frequently prostrated by migraines…

His medical notes were made of sturdier stuff. Pulling them towards herself, Anna was grateful - again - that he had been arrogant enough to claim her as his own special project, for had other doctors seen these-through him she had escaped all but the least invasive medical experiments, and he had proven trustworthy in the end, releasing her from his asylum, gifting her with these records and a small amount of money.

The alternatives, had she not been so lucky, might have been distinctly unpleasant.

The second box of papers held her own notes, accumulated over the decades since her arrival. Fragments of equations and scientific theories, bits of lore and careful descriptions of the dreams and half-memories that seemed most significant. Sketches of creatures and machines that had never set foot on this planet. She didn't need these papers; she remembered every bit of it.

It was her life before Earth that was indistinct, not this trivia, but the bigger things, her name, the life she had lived before coming here, what she was...

The very final paper in that box held a simple sketch. Drawn, she recalled, with a fountain pen on a freezing winter's day. The ink had smudged and faded, but the image was still distinguishable: a police box. The image was dated January 1936.

4

Time cuts down all, Both great and small.  
Anonymous

  
"Have you seen UNIT's intranet today?"

Clive grinned. "No," he said, "that would be a violation of the Official Secrets Act, and I would never wish to break the law. Not to mention that I don't have the first clue about breaking into top secret websites. That's your territory, Mary-Ann."

"Then I suppose I'll just have to keep this story to myself."

"Is it a good one?" He glanced around the crowded pub. "Is the Doctor involved?"

"Not yet," she admitted, "but this would be just the kind of thing that would attract him."

"National disaster?"

Mary-Ann leaned forward. "Alien spaceship."

"Yeah?" Clive drained his glass and reached for hers. "Where?"

"An empty lot in Tottenham."

"Better than the centre of London. You could take a look on your way home."

"I thought about it," she admitted. "Want to come with me?"

He looked tempted but said, "I promised the wife I wouldn't be late. The X-Files is on."

"Is this what the human race has come to? Watching aliens on telly instead of finding them I real life? 1996 is a bad year for this species."

Clive looked shamefaced.

"Oh well," Mary-Ann stood up, "I'll tell you all about it."

"If you see the Doctor," he began.

"I should give him your love?"

"No. Run."

*

The nearest bus stop was half a mile away from the crash site, and the street itself was cordoned off.

"Can't go down here, miss," called one of the guards.

"Is there a bomb threat?"

"Gas leak."

She peered past his shoulder, but the view was blocked - intentionally, she thought - by heavy trucks. She could see figures in uniform moving about, but that was all.

There was no sign of the Doctor. She wasn't sure what she would have done if she had seen him. Useless, really.

She was tempted to bluff her way past the guards, just to get a look at the fallen ship, but she was beginning to feel like the sort of person who gawked at traffic accidents, and she didn't want to attract unnecessary attention.

She said something noncommittal to the guard and turned away. If there was anything interesting, it would turn up in UNIT's files overnight.

Walking back to the bus stop, she thought she sensed movement in the shadows. But nothing answered when she called out, and she arrived home unmolested.

*

At thirty-two minutes past one, she was woken by footsteps in her bedroom, and a voice that was not human said, "Help me."

She was on her feet before she could think, putting her back to the wall and switching on the bedside lamp.

The creature came no further than her shoulder, his blue-tinged skin mottled with bruises and his ornate robes sticky with violet ichor.

"Help me," he said.

"Did you follow me home?"

"I recognised you. My lady. Help me." He sank to his knees, and she moved to his side. His skin was cool beneath her hand. She undid the clasps on his robes, and bit her lip when she saw the cuts and burns beneath the ruined fabric.

"I don't know how to treat you."

He closed his eyes in despair. "Then end my pain." He reached for her hand. "It is good to see you again, Lady President. If only for a short time. I was told you were taken by the Daleks." His voice was growing softer. "I prayed you were dead. But you thrive in spite of it."

"Wait," she said urgently.

"How vividly I recall the conference where we met. You were not … what I expected of a Time Lord."

"How can I help you?" Her voice cracked.

He opened his eyes. "Like this." He guided her hand to his high forehead, and laid her palm against it. She held her breath, but nothing happened. He grimaced.

"What has happened, Romanadvoratrelundar? I thought your race were telepaths, after a fashion."

"I-"

"Now there is nothing." He let her hand go. "After the Time War, my people thought to fill the void left by Gallifrey. But the vortex was in chaos, and the lower races had forgotten you ever existed. We fell into civil war. And now we have lost." He wheezed. "Both sides."

"I'm sorry."

"It is better. That you don't remember." His voice was almost inaudible, and it was only because she was holding her breath that she heard his final words: "I envy you."

He twitched, and died. She realised she was crying.

By morning, his body had shrivelled up and become a shell, small enough to fit in her hand, and she was stiff from the hours she'd spent crouched on the floor, her hands sticky with his ichor.

She didn't even remember his name. She wondered if she had ever known it.

His body turned to dust as the sunlight crept across her bedroom floor. She wiped her eyes and went to clean herself.

Afterwards, she sat at her desk and pulled out the notebook into which she recorded her dreams, instincts and half-memories. Each entry was carefully annotated and cross-referenced, and she allowed herself a moment to admire the precision of her work. On the first blank page she wrote, Romanadvoratrelundar. It was like the name of a stranger.

Then she closed the book and put it in the box in her linen closet hiding place. Switching on her computer, she backed up her files and printed them out as hard copy. Then she wiped her hard drive. Removing her work from the internet took the better part of a day, and her usenet and mailing list posts remained, to be lost, she hoped, amidst newer entries.

Clive emailed her, and then telephoned, but she didn't answer. She closed up the shop and bought a plane ticket to America, and set out to disappear for a year. Afterwards, she would come back with a new name, and start again.

5

Clocks slay time  
William Faulkner

  
"…allegations of terrorist activity in the wake of the devastating hoax, Labour MP Harriet Jones has issued a statement-"

The phone rang. Anna dropped the collet tool and switched the radio off, but she let the phone ring twice more before she picked it up.

"Miss Chapman."

She sighed. "Major Keene."

"We had a bit of an incident last week. I presume you noticed?"

"Mmm. Space ship crashing into the Thames, that sort of thing? Destruction of Downing Street?"

"That's the one."

Anna leaned back in her chair and smiled. "The BBC is telling me it was a hoax."

"Good of them. Wouldn't want to start a panic. It's not a hoax."

"I thought you might say that."

"I am wondering," Keene sounded uncharacteristically uncomfortable, "if you would agree to a meeting this afternoon."

"What kind of meeting?"

"Business. Three o'clock. We'll send a car."

He hung up before she could reply. Anna sat in bemused silence for seven minutes, listening to the ticking of her assorted clocks. Then she stood up and went upstairs to change her clothes and make a cup of tea.

The car arrived at precisely two minutes to three, and Anna was driven in silence to an unremarkable building near Vauxhall Cross. The driver escorted her inside without speaking, but she sensed his disapproval as she looked about with unconcealed curiosity. The building was as bland within as its exterior promised, but there was a guard barring the entrance to the inner chambers.

Major Keene was waiting within, looking slightly harried. Even his smile was strained as he shook her hand - a courtesy he had never offered before - and welcomed her into a meeting room that was featureless but for a pallid fern in a pot by the door.

"Can I get you a drink?" he said, "coffee or tea? Biscuits?"

"No. Thank you." She sat down. "Are you going to offer me a job again?"

"My superiors will be here in a moment."

"I see." She carefully refrained from smiling.

His superiors, when they arrived, consisted of two men aged anywhere between forty and sixty, and a sturdy black woman, the only member of the trio who didn't look like a desk officer. All were in uniform, all wore stony expressions. None were introduced.

"Major Keene tells us you're aware of the recent events," said the woman without preamble. Anna, who was trying to decipher her rank insignia, blinked.

"I should think everyone in the world is familiar with recent events," she said. "Of course, it's a pretty sick hoax that involves killing the prime minister and half his cabinet."

"In addition to those deaths," said the man sitting on Keene's left, "we also suffered the loss of a number of specialists."

"They will be greatly missed," said the other man.

"They will also be difficult to replace," said the woman finally.

"What did they specialise in?" asked Anna, although she could guess the answer.

"Extra-terrestrial issues," said Keene.

"Of course."

"It is our understanding," said the woman, "that you have some expertise in these matters. According to our records, you have already been approached by UNIT-"

"And I've said no. Three times, actually."

"It was only last year that Miss Chapman declined our latest offer," added Keene.

"Nevertheless," said the first man, "these are difficult times."

"Sacrifices must be made," said the second.

"And you would be a particularly valuable addition to our team," said the woman. "Since you are not human yourself."

Anna froze. When the silence had stretched for seven seconds, and become awkward, she said, "Well. That sounds rather different, coming from a stranger."

"You don't deny it?" asked the second man.

"Should I? It would be pretty pointless, really. But being an alien doesn't mean I have any particular insight into them, and I don't want your job." Major Keene's smile was quickly suppressed.

"You spent several years collecting information on-"

"That's over. I finished."

"Gave up?" asked the woman.

"Moved on."

She shuffled her notes. "The Doctor resurfaced in this crisis. Did you know?"

"No," said Anna softly. Bizarrely, her first thought was to ask, Did he look well? "Was he killed with the rest?"

"No." With a slightly rueful look, the woman said, "it was he, and his compatriots, who were responsible for the destruction of 10 Downing Street."

"Oh."

Keene said, "You've met one of those responsible - the boy, Mickey Smith."

"And the missing girlfriend," Anna guessed.

"Rose Tyler."

"You could do a lot of good, working for us," said the first man, throwing a quelling look at Keene. "More interesting than fixing watches."

"I enjoy my work." Anna leaned back. "I'm not here to give your advice or help you out of tight spots or to save your planet. I observe. I don't intervene. Why don't you hire Mickey Smith? He's young, adaptable. Resourceful."

"Smith," said the second man, "is not considered ideal recruitment material."

"How lucky for him."

"Working with us might give you the information you need to return to your home." The woman was watching her. "Is that not one of your goals?"

"It's not, actually. Classic science fiction cliché, but not applicable in this case." Anna stood up. "I think I'm finished here, thank you."

They let her go without a word. This time, there was no waiting car. She took the bus, and walked the final blocks with an inward smile that she couldn't quite explain.

*

On Saturdays, she closed the shop at lunchtime and treated herself to a pub lunch and a leisurely browse through the antique store across the road. The owner had an eye for convincing fakes, and for the customers gullible enough to buy them. Or perhaps he was just careless; either way, it amused her to watch him at work.

The weekend after her meeting with UNIT, her plans for a peaceful afternoon abruptly collapsed when Mickey Smith walked into the shop.

"I'm just about to close, sorry-oh, it's you."

He grinned. "Bet you're wondering how I found you, yeah?"

Anna rested her chin on her palm. "I'm guessing you went through every female watchmaker in the phone book."

"Er. Yeah."

"And you're not buying a watch."

"No." He thrust his hands into his pockets. "I was going through some of Clive's files, see, and I came across a whole lot of emails you sent him, about computer programming, hacking, that sort of thing. So I figured you might be able to help me with this."

From his jacket he drew a black CD-Rom, unlabelled and unremarkable but for its colour. It was cold in Anna's hand.

"I think I can guess where you got this," she said.

"Yeah. Him."

For a moment, Anna considered smashing it, or simply handing it back and sending Mickey on his way. Then she stood up, crossed the shop floor and locked the door.

"Come upstairs," she said.

As they ascended the narrow staircase she said, "What did he tell you it was?"

"A virus. Said it would wipe him off the internet."

"Impressive. Have you used it?"

"No." Mickey hesitated. "He saved us all. But - he thinks he knows best, and maybe he doesn't."

"Your capacity for trust is remarkably limited." Anna led him into her study, where her spare computer was collecting dust, superseded by the newer machine downstairs.

"I trust Rose," said Mickey, looking stubborn. "But not that alien."

Anna ignored this and, while her computer booted up, checked that the phone cord was unplugged. When she was absolutely certain the unit was isolated, she put the disc in the drive.

"Well?" said Mickey.

"Wait."

The screen went black, and characters began to scroll down, too quickly to be read.

"Very Matrix," said Mickey.

"Mmm."

After three minutes, the scrolling stopped, and a message appeared, in large block letters: RICKY YOU IDIOT, YOU NEED TO BE ONLINE.

"Personalised," Anna muttered.

"Arsehole," said Mickey.

The message remained for thirty seconds, and then the program shut itself down.

"Now," said Anna, "we get to work."

While Mickey watched and fidgeted, she stripped the virus down to the bare bones of its code. Hacking through the layers of protection, and forcing the program to co-operate with her operating system, took a good hour. Mickey made sandwiches and, finding her fridge empty of highly sugared drinks, went out to grab some Coke.

"You're good at that," said Mickey, finishing his second sandwich.

"I've had a lot of practice."

"But - it's an alien virus."

"I've seen it before. Or one of its relatives." She frowned at the screen and tapped at the keyboard. "They're all the same, really. There."

"What?"

"The beginning of something interesting."

"What is it?"

Anna shushed him and went back to work.

Uncovering the meat of the code took the better part of the afternoon. At six minutes to four, Anna leaned back in her chair and accepted a can of Coke from Mickey.

"Well?" he said.

"It was constructed quickly - parts of the code are redundant - even messy. Although that might simply be the Doctor's natural style."

"So it's sloppy."

"But effective. If you'd released it on the internet, it would have tracked and deleted every reference to the Doctor, the TARDIS and any information pertaining to his history."

"Even government files?"

"Everything."

"Why would he do that?" Mickey began to pace. "He's a good guy, right? So what's he hiding from?"

"I suppose," said Anna, "he simply enjoys his privacy."

"And that's why you stopped looking into him? Respect for his privacy?"

"No." Anna pulled the disc out of the drive and shut down the computer. "It was attracting the wrong kind of attention."

"Like what?"

"There are worse things than one alien with an ego complex and a time machine," she said lightly. She even smiled. Mickey looked away.

6

Perfection in a clock does not consist in being fast, but in being on time  
Spencer, Definitions

  
From: m1ck3yl33t@hotmail.com  
Sent: December 23, 2006 11:52 PM  
To: m.nichols@fastnet.co.uk  
Subject: Re: Clive

never thought I'd hear from you again.

Rose and me went to see clive just after Henrik's exploded. she found him on the internet. well, she saw him, I waited in the car. got taken by those plastic things. Real manly.

after she went off with - you know - I went around to clive's to see what he knew. only Clive was dead. the plastic things again. But his wife said she wantd all the you-know-what stuff out of the house, and I said I'd take it. figured it would help, yeah?

Was clive a friend of yours?

Merry xmas btw.

&gt; How did you get Clive's files? I've  
&gt; been wondering for months.

From: m.nichols@fastnet.co.uk  
Sent: December 24 2006 5:04 AM  
To: m1ck3yl33t@hotmail.com  
Subject: Re: Clive

Clive was a friend, yes. We'd lost touch. I was sorry to hear he'd been killed.

Merry Christmas, Mickey.

M.

&gt; never thought I'd hear from you again.

&gt; Rose and me went to see clive just after  
&gt; Henrik's exploded. she found him on the  
&gt; internet. well, she saw him, I waited in  
&gt; the car. got taken by those plastic things.  
&gt; Real manly.

&gt; after she went off with - you know - I went  
&gt; around to clive's to see what he knew. only  
&gt; Clive was dead. the plastic things again.  
&gt; But his wife said she wantd all the  
&gt; you-know-what stuff out of the house, and I  
&gt; said I'd take it. figured it would help, yeah?

&gt; Was clive a friend of yours?

&gt; Merry xmas btw.

*

Anna didn't sleep on Christmas Eve; she was curled up beneath a blanket on her sofa, watching the news. Four minutes after the Sycorax appeared, she was downstairs, booting up her computer and preparing to hack into UNIT. The internet was slow, and she was out of practice. It was, she decided, going to be a tedious night.

But she didn't go back upstairs.

She started downloading a radio stream - the audio ran in stops and starts - and got to work peeling back UNIT's layers.

"—Government has—ssued a stateme—claiming that the so-called aliens—student hoax-"

All UNIT leave was cancelled; all bases were to be fully manned and on alert.

"—Others, however, disagree. William Fitz—ald, well-UFO ex—spoke to the BBC's Celia Harris-"

She checked the Mary-Ann Nichols account, but there were no new emails from Mickey. She shouldn't have expected it, really; he was probably at home with his family.

According to UNIT's readings, Guinevere One was transmitting from five thousand miles above the surface of Mars. And the aliens were speaking.

"—Government has covered up all kinds—invasions. This isn't merely—paranoia–the United Nations—highest lev-"

She was reaching for pen and paper, she was writing down the major sounds. If she heard enough, she would be able to recognise the significant verbs - she had studied this once, and if she didn't think about it too closely, if she worked from instinct alone-

"—unnamed govern—source has called--'Our longest night'-"

Consciously trying to be instinctive, she decided, was like trying to think about nothing, a zen exercise she had attempted in Japan in the late 1970s. The effort was giving her a headache. She tore the scribbled sheets out of her notebook and aimed them at her wastepaper basket. All missed.

She hoped UNIT was having better luck.

There was shouting on the streets outside as the sun rose. Anna pulled a coat over her pyjamas and found a pair of shoes.

"Nino? Come down, Nino! Please, for your Mama!"

"Angela? Honey, get down from there-"

People lined the rooftops, staring blankly into space. There was Mr Rosakis in his pyjamas, and Mr and Mrs Singh, standing unresponsive as their older children tried to wrap them in blankets. There was the owner of the antique store across the road, and the newlyweds who rented the flat above the video shop. Anna spotted a familiar figure.

"What's happened?"

Jess jumped as Anna spoke, and fear made her look even younger than her seventeen years. "They won't come down," she said. "Like they're zombies. Like they can't even hear us. There was a light around their heads…"

She pointed: her whole family were on the roof, her mother and stepfather, her brothers and stepsister, her cousin and her eighty-five-year-old grandmother.

"I should be up there with them," breathed Jess.

"No," said Anna, "better that you stay down here, where you can't startle them off. You can help down here."

"How?"

Anna opened her mouth, and stopped.

"This isn't like before," said Jess, "the other hoaxes, I mean." Her lower lip trembled. "They were just a laugh. This is-"

"-Everyone's problem. I know."

"We're all going to die." Tears spilled down her face. "On Christmas Day."

"Come inside, Jess," said Anna at last. "Eat something, and we'll find out what has happened."

In the end, a dozen people followed her back into her shop, including the young policeman who had been sent around to reassure people. Anna made tea and coffee, and people fled back to their own homes to find food for breakfast. But they all came back; no one wanted to eat alone. It was more people than she had ever had in her home, or even in her shop, at once.

Jess put the television on. The same thing was happening all over the world. Inescapable.

There was a touch on Anna's arm, and the elderly woman who had lived all her life in a converted Georgian flat said, "Is your family all right, dear?"

"I don't have a family," said Anna. "I guess I'm lucky, really."

"Quiet," snapped Consolata Esposito, "the Prime Minister is on."

"Did we ask about the royal family? …Oh. They're on the roof." Someone sniggered. "-this crisis is unique, and I'm sorry to say, it might get much worse."

"So what did we vote for her for?"

"I didn't vote at all."

"Quiet."

The Prime Minister continued, "But I have one request. Doctor. If you're out there … we need you." Leaning against the wall, Anna sank silently to the floor. "I don't know what to do. But if you can hear me, Doctor … if anyone knows the Doctor, if anyone can find him … the situation has never been more desperate."

"What the hell is she on about?" demanded Alberto Esposito. "Our children are on the roof and she wants a doctor?"

"Maybe she's sick," someone said, and Jess giggled.

Anna fled into her office.

Somewhere in here was the business card Keene had given her on their first meeting. Her filing system was meticulous, it should be - here.

She found her phone and dialled.

"Thank you for calling UNIT," said a recorded voice. "There's no one in our office to take your call-"

"No," she moaned, "it's a secret number. There's supposed to be someone to answer the phone."

"-but if you leave a message, someone will get back to you as soon as possible. Have a Merry Christmas."

Anna hung up.

She slipped through her crowded living room and went downstairs, where her computer was still online. She dashed off an email to Keene, and then, on a whim, sent another to Mickey Smith.

The grandfather clock gave an ominous rattle.

"Shut up," Anna snapped.

Above and around them, there was a sound like a distant explosion, and all the windows shattered. Anna covered her face with her arms, and when she looked up again, half of her clocks and watches were in pieces on the floor. Only the grandfather clock remained intact. Even her monitor was cracked.

There were cries upstairs, and footsteps rushing down the staircase.

"What was that?"

"A sonic wave," said Anna. She stepped carefully through the broken glass and went outside, her neighbours following behind. Outside, the sky was filled with the vast alien ship. The sleepwalkers - hostages? - remained impassive but unharmed.

"It looks like rock," said Jess.

"It's an asteroid. They've hollowed it out."

"Yeah?" Jess was evidently back to her usual sullen self. "How do you know?"

Anna shrugged. "It's obvious, isn't it?" She sat on the kerb and looked up. "They can't be very advanced," she added. "Or perhaps they have a large population. But no, look at those engines. Very primitive."

"Primitive?" Jess was looking at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted a pair of antennae. Anna shrugged and walked slowly down the road.

She tallied her resources: several lifetimes of education and accumulated knowledge about aliens, time travel and other obscurities. All locked away beyond her reach in her own mind, unless she managed to hit on something by luck or instinct. Two computers, one broken, the other no doubt infected with the Doctor's virus. A telephone number that would be useless until after the holidays. And a street full of scared, ignorant humans whose existence might end in the next few hours.

Or it might continue.

There were worse things than extinction.

She turned and walked back to the main shops, found a discarded crate outside the corner shop, and stood on it. And waited. When she had everyone's attention, she said, "We're not going to save the world today." Mutinous faces all around her. How long had she avoided attention? "If we survive, it will be through other people. Or luck."

"So what's the point, then?" called the eldest Singh boy. "If we're all going to die?"

"Did I say we were going to die?" She jumped off the crate and met her neighbours eye to eye. "If those people up there are freed from whatever means of mind control is being used, they're going to need warm clothes and food. Go and put those things together for your families. If there's anyone up there who doesn't have family, find something for them too. Make sure they're not left alone when they come out of it."

"How do we know they are going to come out of it?" That was the younger Singh boy, tremulously mimicking his brother.

"Then we'll arrange shifts to watch them overnight. Wrap them up in blankets against the cold, and we'll make sure they're not left alone. For as long as it takes."

A few people scattered back to their homes, but most stayed, looking awkward or rebellious. It was fair enough, Anna conceded; who was she to tell them what to do, except an aloof neighbour who had never spoken to some of these people before today.

"Well," snapped the young policeman, his ears red. "Get to it, then." People began to move, and he called after their retreating backs, "and get some people to clear up this glass. Wearing gloves, mind, and proper boots."

Despite herself, Anna laughed, and he blushed more.

"Done this before, have you?" he asked.

"Once or twice. Populations in shock just need a nudge sometimes."

"Well." His radio crackled. "Looks like everything's in order here. Uh. Call me if there are riots?"

"I promise."

She watched him walk away, and despite the chaos around her and the ominous ship overhead, she felt oddly light-hearted.

*

In the end, the hostages were released that day, and Anna watched with everyone else as the energy beams destroyed the ship. Harriet Jones was on television within the hour, proclaiming victory for Earth, but there was a new strain around her eyes.

It began to snow that night, or so Anna thought at first. But it was dry and dirty. Ash, from the ship.

She couldn't blame the Prime Minister for her actions, but she could see how some people would disagree. And already there was a new crisis, and new scandals, and she could already see that the rest of the world wanted to move on and forget.

On December 27, at three past nine in the morning, she picked up her phone. This time, it was answered on the second ring, and she was put through to Major Keene without question.

"Good morning, Major. How was your Christmas?"

"Eventful. For others, not me." He dropped his voice slightly. "I was on the roof."

"I see."

"Is this a courtesy call, Miss Chapman?"

"No. Actually." She bit her lip. "Is your job offer still open?"

7

The passage of time is simply an illusion created by our brains.  
A. M. W. Bell, Rock me to Sleep, Mother

  
The problem with a Time War was that it caused paradoxes. One slave species would vanish, to be replaced with another that had been there all along, and only she knew the difference.

She hoped it was a sign that Gallifrey was winning. It sometimes seemed as if she'd been a prisoner forever, that her life before was a dream.

One day she woke up and found the base empty. The door to her cell was unlocked and open, and everything beyond was silent.

For a long time, she simply lay on the floor and tried to calculate the likelihood that this was simply a trick. Or an hallucination.

The world spun when she sat up, and she closed her eyes until it had calmed. Getting to her feet was a slow and shaky process, and her legs could barely hold her up. She clung to the walls and hoped she wouldn't have to run.

Beyond her cell, she found more corridors, dimly lit and designed to accommodate the Dalek form. On an upper level she found a command centre: it had been the bridge when this was an independent ship, and now it co-ordinated the base's systems.

All designed for Daleks, of course, and rigging it to be compatible with a humanoid form was beyond her strength.

She rested a while, in the centre of the Dalek base, and wondered how much time she had before they returned.

Then she set off to explore.

The lower levels seemed to go on forever. It was a mining operation, she realised, as well as a perverse medical facility, but she had no idea what they were mining. Except that it was valuable: even the lowest levels were accessible to Daleks.

The slave quarters were on the same level as her cell, although a considerable distance away. For the first time she realised she had been below ground level all along.

She was still a good way away from the slave quarters when her legs gave out. She closed her eyes to rest for a moment, and she must have fallen asleep, because she heard and felt nothing until a weapon was pressed against her neck and a voice said, "Stand up."

At least, she thought as she complied, they weren't Daleks.

In fact, they were a motley group of aliens, ragged and emaciated yet bristling with aggression. She counted at least three species, two of which she had believed vanished in a paradox.

"You are Prisoner Ninety-Two," said the man with the weapon. He wore a translator on his chest.

"I-" Her voice was rusty from disuse and her throat was dry. She tried again. "My name is-" for a frightening moment, she couldn't remember - "Romanadvoratrelundar." Her captor looked blank, and she could see him mouthing the syllables. "Romana."

"Prisoner Ninety-Two. You were the medical experiment."

"Experiment? No, I think they knew what they were doing. Do you have any water?"

The leader hesitated, then said something in his own language to one of his companions, who reluctantly handed him a canteen. The leader presented it to her with a flourish that bordered on sarcasm, but the water was pure, if stale. The canteen was snatched back before she had even begun to drink her fill.

Romana climbed to her feet and said, "Where have the Daleks gone?"

"Do not ask questions," snapped the leader. He sounded almost like a Dalek himself. She wondered how long he had been a slave. "You are a Time Lord?"

"Yes."

He hissed. "Then you are the reason we're all here." He brandished his weapon. "Come with us."

She walked behind him, flanked by two of his compatriots. They maintained a painful grip on her arms, and she let them take some of her weight.

"If this base survived the paradox," she said, "the Daleks may return."

He ignored her.

"We should be ready for that."

No answer. She was led into the slave quarters proper, a vast dingy room full of ragged former slaves, gathered in groups or sitting isolated on low beds. She recognised one of the slave medics, but he didn't meet her eyes.

She was unceremoniously dropped onto a bed, which was only slightly softer than the floor.

"What were you mining?" she asked. One of the guards shifted slightly, and she followed his gaze.

"Don't ask-"

Romana moved with a speed she would not have believed herself capable of, and pulled a few fragments of crystal out from beneath the bed beside her.

"What is it?" she asked, holding it up to the dim light. "I've never seen anything like it."

"We mine it. We don't-" he sneered - "subject it to analysis."

"Pity." She stood up, and to her great relief, didn't immediately fall down again. "The Daleks will come back. An operation this size will be valuable to them, even without me. They have time travel. They could arrive at any moment. Don't point that weapon at me. It's a mining tool, and it has a limited charge. You'll want to save it for the Daleks, not waste it on one of their prisoners."

"You're my prisoner now."

"Am I? How lovely. I'm sure the Daleks will appreciate your initiative when they return."

He hesitated. Romana held her breath.

He said, "We couldn't fight them before. That's why we're here." He was clearly beginning to think, beginning to see the possibilities and problems before him. She had worked with former slaves before, suddenly free and hungry for leadership. "You couldn't fight them either," he added.

"No," she conceded, "but at least I went down fighting."

He nodded.

"My name is Rabben. What do we do to prepare?"

*

"I think you fear their return even more than we do."

"You should know why."

Slave Medic One-One-Seven - the third Slave Unit One-One-Seven, from Romana's perspective - was called Yilka. She gave a kind of fluid shrug of apology.

"I have been their slave for twenty-five subjective years," she said. "Your Time War has raged all my life. Keep still, please."

Romana looked away as the needle pierced her neck. Hypodermics, disgusting. But the painkillers were effective, albeit for increasingly short periods of time.

Yilka said, "Are the headaches still worsening?"

"Are you a telepath?"

"No. But I shall take that as a yes." She withdrew the needle. "And the memory loss?"

"I - I feel as if I cannot control my thoughts. I have to concentrate. And the headaches-"

"Make that difficult. Yes."

"Will it pass?"

Yilka hesitated.

"No one has ever lived long enough to find out," she said softly. "I am sorry."

Romana stood up. "It will do for now."

*

The Daleks returned two subjective days later. Romana was surprised it had taken that long. There were only three of them. It was enough.

The airlock guards were taken unawares, and they died quickly. The second wave of defence fell slowly, giving the inner defenders time to complete their booby trap. This destroyed one Dalek, and Rabben laughed. The remaining two exterminated him without hesitation.

The remaining two Daleks found Romana in the control centre, armed with a modified rock cutter. The Daleks entered at a leisurely pace, their eyestalks swivelling to take in the molten slag that had lately been their technology.

"Gallifreyan female. You will surrender to the Daleks."

"Aren't you going to exterminate me?" Her head was throbbing. She felt quite mad.

"You will surrender."

"No."

Behind them, Yilka appeared, her weapon armed. The second Dalek's weapons section swivelled, aimed and exterminated her.

"You will surrender."

"I told you. No." Romana raised her weapon, aimed for the eyestalk and fired. The Dalek absorbed the energy and advanced, its gun levelled at her chest.

Romana laughed.

"You're under orders not to kill me!"

"Surrender!"

"I thought you'd return for the mine, but you want me as well."

"You will surrender to the Daleks."

"What for, I wonder? As a puppet? Hostage?" The pain in her head was unbearable, now, and her vision was blurred. "What - what is it you're mining?"

"Surrender!"

"It affects - time, doesn't it? No - it's immune to time. It's a barrier. Unaffected by - paradoxes. That's why the slaves remained and the Daleks vanished."

How remarkable, how valuable, and she could hardly think-

"I won't surrender," she said, but her voice sounded very far away, and she was already sinking to the floor.

*

She was awake now, encased in something that looked like glass or crystal, but was neither. Immune to time's ravages and the war that was presently warping the vortex itself. Half-alive, half-aware, cells frozen mid-division, unable to heal or die or live.

An eternity passed in a moment, and now she could hardly remember why she was here, or who she was. There was no pain. This planetoid was dead now, mined hollow and abandoned, and she was alone on a lifeless rock, with only the stars overhead to see her.

And now there were people, but she hardly had the words to recognise them, and they had a ship, and they were human. And they found her and thought she was valuable, and one said, "I thought they were just a myth-" but the others shushed him.

They called themselves Time Agents, and they were explorers and scavengers and sometimes upholders of the law.

And they were taking her back to their base, on their home planet, from which so many of their species had migrated.

But their time ship was failing, and they were crashing through time as well as space-

And in the crash, they all died, except for her, encased in her shell. But it had cracked, it was in pieces, she was free again. With air on her skin and an alien sky overhead, and she was aware of every cell in her body.

And the aliens found her, and although they didn't understand the ship or the fragments of crystal, they took her to their hospitals. And she dreamily told their doctors what she was thinking, so she was taken to another hospital, where a gentleman who specialised in disorders on the mind studied her.

And she found a place and time to be healed.

8

Time still, as he flies, brings increase to her truth,  
And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.  
Edward Moore

  
The Prime Minister said, "UNIT has already provided me with one personal assistant. Milk and sugar?"

"Just milk, please."

"I'm afraid it didn't quite work out with Alex. He was very good at his job, but-"

"He indulged his curiosity."

"Precisely. And," she set the tea tray down in front of Anna, "please pardon me for saying so, but I'm not entirely comfortable with maintaining such close ties to UNIT. It raises certain ethical issues."

Anna sipped her tea and said, "I'm quite certain that no one at UNIT regards you as a puppet to be manipulated."

"I'm very relieved to hear it."

"And in any case, I'm not precisely military."

"Oh?"

"More of a consultant. A scientific advisor, if you will. But I requested this position, when it became available."

"Your resume," Jones reached for the file on her desk, although Anna strongly suspected she had committed the significant documents to memory, "was very interesting. You've only been working for UNIT for-"

"A month and a half."

"You were the only applicant recommended for this position by UNIT."

"Well," said Anna, "they have very high recruitment standards."

"It's an odd sort of job. Terribly dull most of the time - I'm not terribly interesting, I'm afraid. Managing my schedule, liaising with administration staff and UNIT, the occasional alien invasion. You're not - daunted by that?"

"It sounds like an interesting challenge." Anna smoothed her scarlet skirt. "I was a doctor's assistant for some years."

"Yes." Jones frowned again at Anna's resume. "The dates are very strange."

"I know. But there's no helping that, I'm afraid."

"Er. Quite." The Prime Minister swallowed a mouthful of tea. "A doctor, you say?"

"Yes. It was a long time ago," Anna admitted, "but I expect it will come back to me quickly enough."

The Prime Minister studied her for a moment, looking as if she were on the verge of saying something. Then she shook her head slightly, smiled and extended her hand.

"Welcome to my staff," she said.

*

It was coming back faster than she expected – and, she was beginning to admit - faster than she could cope with. Her dreams were disturbed and the old headaches had returned. It was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain the façade of being human, and when she returned home every evening, to her closed and dusty shop, she found herself spending nights simply sitting in front of the grandfather clock, waiting.

UNIT had demanded that she undergo a physical. She spent three days in a facility in Cornwall, subjected to blood tests, auditory and visual tests. The results of the MRI kept the medical team occupied for a whole day, calling in an expert from Cambridge when they finally conceded defeat. Anna, meanwhile, was assigned a course of exercises and obstacle courses; more physical exertion than she had attempted for a long time. The distance she could run and swim without pausing for breath attracted great attention. She decided to find it flattering.

"Do you put all your civilian consultants through this?" she asked the captain directing her through the third course.

He said nothing, and pointed at the rock wall.

On the third day, when she was properly exhausted and vulnerable, came the intelligence and psychological tests. Or perhaps the psychological tests had been ongoing over her whole time on the base. The overt tests started out with the most simplistic of exercises, and escalated.

On the evening of the third day, she was released from the test room and permitted to walk - unaccompanied for the first time since her arrival - along the cliffs overlooking the sea.

After an hour, she heard footsteps behind her, and a woman's voice said, "They tell me you volunteered for that."

"I started having second thoughts when they pulled out the first hypodermic." Anna wrapped her coat more tightly around herself. "You're Doctor Shaw, aren't you? The expert from Cambridge."

"Yes." Shaw approached, the wind blowing her thick grey hair across her face. "I left UNIT years ago, but they still call when they get an interesting problem."

"I suppose they don't usually get aliens volunteering for study."

"Not in the usual run of things, no. But don't get cocky. You're not unique."

"No?"

"The double cardiovascular system, the alpha wave patterns, acute sensitivity to time, ill-concealed superiority complex. I've seen it all before." Shaw sounded positively cheerful.

"I know."

"An army of psychologists are studying the results of your tests."

"And?"

"Is your memory recovering?"

Anna shrugged. "I seem to be able to call something to mind, provided I don't think about it too closely."

"Sounds like a challenge."

"It's unpleasant, and it makes me fairly useless to UNIT."

"Ridiculous. You can always rely on UNIT to find a use for something. Anyway, it's my belief - not that I have any professional standing in this area, but call it a doctor's instinct - that you're due for a memory cascade. Some catalyst will trigger it. Of course," she added wryly, "what that catalyst may be is anyone's guess. A familiar place, a smell, a childhood memory. Of course, that's what I'd assume for a human. Did you have a childhood in any recognisable form?"

Anna shrugged. "Direct questions are beyond my abilities. I might have been a child once."

"How are the headaches?"

"Bearable." Silence. "Getting worse," she admitted.

"The pharmacists can devise painkillers," said Shaw, "but in layman's terms, your brain has been significantly scrambled. Any treatment would involve radical changes, and I don't think we can do that without causing more damage in the process."

"Comforting thought."

"I'm sorry." Shaw turned back to the base. "It's the best we can do for now."

Anna stood on the edge and watched her walk away.

  
*

As London's scenery slid by, Anna said, "You have a meeting with the Minister for Education at nine-thirty, and then fifteen minutes meeting the British Schools Gymnastics Team. They won six medals at-"

"-The international games in Singapore."

"Is there any point at all in reminding you of your schedule, Prime Minister?"

"Just let me know when I'm running late."

In front of them, the driver chuckled.

Anna hesitated and said, "There is one other thing," she said, and dropped her voice. "The woman with whom Prince Harry was photographed yesterday…"

"The - dancer?"

"She's not precisely human."

"Oh dear."

"UNIT has contacted her parents, who are predictably furious. They're fetching her back to the family home in Surrey today, and the scandal will have passed by tomorrow."

"The miracle of a free press."

"I was told that you're to know nothing about this, to maintain plausible deniability if something goes wrong, so I thought you'd want to know."

"I do. Thank you."

The Prime Minister settled back against the car's upholstery and looked pensive as they drove.

That afternoon, in the lull between a press conference and a meeting with the Minister for Health, she said, "Are there a lot of aliens living in Britain?"

"More than you might think. UNIT estimates that there are at least a thousand."

"Good heavens."

"Most seem to be refugees. The universe is a violent place, and Earth - particularly an Earth democracy - is a good place to settle. Just enough technology for some kind of quality of life, but not so much control that they can't slip through the cracks and create new identities."

"Ah."

"Most are peaceful. You can have a pretty good life here, if you can pass for human."

"And - the ones who aren't peaceful?"

"They're taken care of."

*

Either UNIT"s painkillers were ineffective, or the headaches had worsened exponentially. She was beginning to suspect they were an intentional effect of the Daleks' treatment: what better way to control a puppet president than ensuring she couldn't think? Or perhaps she was becoming paranoid, too.

With the pain came knowledge. Fragments of her past, all incidental memories like the biting cold that hit her the first time she visited another world, or the lifecycle of the flutterwing. She could picture her first incarnation now, although the mental image was fuzzy and she didn't know why she had regenerated.

Meaningless trivia, but it was her trivia. All coming back too quickly for her mind to deal with. She kept it at bay by occupying herself with increasingly meaningless tasks, but sooner or later she would run out of things to do.

This, she understood, was the consequence of taking action, and one hundred and eighteen years was barely enough time to prepare herself for the change.

And other things were changing too, like the rattles within the grandfather clock she had built with her own hands. They had become rhythmic, sending out minute waves of temporal distortion - less than milliseconds, so that even she had to concentrate to be aware of them. The effect would no doubt become cumulative, and then she would have problems, but she was more concerned with their steady rhythm.

It sounded like a signal.

She had developed a routine of adjusting the clock late every evening, to mute the distortions for a little while. At first, the effect had lasted for almost a day; now it gained her only a few hours of peace.

She was realigning the cogs and humming tunelessly, when the air behind her seemed to shift.

She froze.

And then there was a deep thrumming, like the pulse of some vast creature, or the engines of an alien machine.

She turned, and watched the TARDIS materialise.

9

Time: that which man is always trying to kill, but which ends in killing him.  
Herbert Spencer, Definitions

  
Her name was Kate Eddowes in 1957, and she was building a grandfather clock. It was an old skill, an indulgence. She was good with her hands, but this kind of work was new to her. It was more satisfying than she had expected, and more, it was a long-overdue opportunity to put certain materials to use.

The substance that was neither glass nor crystal was set out carefully on her workbench. She had carved shards into cogs and screws, weights and a shimmering disk that formed the bob of the pendulum. The largest piece of all would become the face; she had engraved the numbers on it with her own hands. It was long, tedious work, for the substance seemed almost impervious to normal tools, just as it was untouched by time.

It was nearly finished, and she was glad.

At fourteen past one, there was a faint metallic tap-tap-tap on the floor behind her. Kate put down the cog she was setting into place and listened.

Eventually, a voice said, "You were not easy to find."

She jumped, scattering tools and fragments of crystal.

"Who are you?" she demanded, looking around the empty room.

"You have something I need."

Something flickered on the edge of her vision, but it had moved before she could turn to look at it. Now it was in front of her. She caught a glimpse of a face, and a body that seemed part-machine.

"I make watches," she said, "that's all. I'm nobody, I'm nothing."

"I suppose," now it was behind her, then on the other side of the room, "it's one way of fixing time. If you're nobody," it moved again, "who will miss you?"

She had the distinct impression that it was laughing at her, like a cat toying with a mouse.

"What are you?"

"I am dying."

"I don't believe you." She pressed her hands together to stop them from shaking. "You move too fast, and you seem whole."

"I am hungry."

"I--"

"I need you." The creature's breath brushed against her cheek; a nanosecond later it stood in front of her. "Time Lord."

"What?"

"I shall consume you. There is no one here to stop me."

"I'm not – this is--" Her voice was shaking, and if she kept talking, she would begin to beg. If nothing else, she could be silent.

Taking half a step back, she reached down to her workbench to find something she could use as a weapon. Her tools were all small and blunt, but her hands closed around the largest piece of the strange crystal that had been her prison. It was cold in her hands.

"Gallifrey is gone, and you are alone. Who would miss you? Who would stop me?"

But when to attack? She said, "What is Gallifrey?"

There was a metallic wheeze that she thought must be laughter. "Do you not know?"

"Should I?" If she could keep it talking, if she could somehow divine its weaknesses--

Her hands were shaking.

The creature stilled and seemed to solidify before her. "It is best forgotten. But a mad Time Lord is better than nothing."

It advanced, and she brandished the crystal, wishing it could somehow shield her.

"What is that?" it demanded

"Don't come any closer."

It reached out to the crystal, but its hand skittered over the surface, and the creature recoiled.

"It is an abomination."

"Is it? Oh, good." She reached behind her, found a smaller, sharper shard on the workbench. It was reassuringly solid.

She aimed and threw it before the creature had a chance to react; it shifted, but seemed to stutter and returned to a point only inches from its original spot. It reached out for her; one hand closed around a scrap of her sleeve as she pushed herself away. She kept moving, pulling the creature off balance. Only for a moment, but it was enough: she tightened her grip on the crystal disc in her hand and threw herself against the creature's body.

The crystal slid over its carapace without making contact, but the creature howled, and she kept pushing with all her strength until it was backed against the grandfather clock.

For a moment, the creature was trapped between the crystal in her hand and the clock that contained even more.

"Are you afraid?" she asked. Her voice was shaking.

The creature became insubstantial for a moment, but didn't move. "Yes."

"Good." She took a step forward, pinning the creature against the clock. "So am I."

"Whatever you do," it said, "I will destroy you in the end." It laughed again, the metallic sound grating against her nerves, and, with a sigh, it seemed to give up. Becoming insubstantial once more, it seemed to draw the clock around itself and fade into the wood.

And she was alone again.

Shaking, she opened it up. The crystals inside were dull and tainted, but there was no sign of the creature. But the clock rattled as she closed it again.

After a long time, she fitted the final parts, and walked away.

  
10

Time, a maniac scattering dust  
Tennyson, In Memoriam

  
The man who emerged from the TARDIS was tall and thin with sharp eyes, wearing a cheap suit with a pair of battered old trainers.

He froze when he saw her, and although she opened her mouth, she could not speak.

"No," he said, "no, that's impossible."

"Doctor," she breathed.

His face darkened. "Romana is dead. She was killed by the Daleks. There are no Time Lords left." He smiled suddenly. "Except for me."

"Doctor."

Behind him, two others were emerging: a blonde girl and the familiar figure of Mickey Smith.

"Not much of a trick, then," the Doctor said. "Is it an illusion? Or are you a clone? Good job if you are, cloning a Gallifreyan is tough work. Or is this just a really tasteless student prank? Why won't you say something?"

"I - can't."

"Doctor," said Mickey softly, but the Doctor ignored him.

"Well?"

"I - the cascade - Doctor Shaw said - the catalyst-" She blinked, but her vision remained blurred. "I remember," she said as darkness claimed her.

The last thing she was aware of was the Doctor springing forward and catching her, calling her name as she fell.

*

When she woke up, she was stretched out on the floor of the TARDIS with the Doctor peering down at her. She sat up slowly, rubbing her head.

"Was that terribly undignified?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "Funny, though. Probably. If you're not us, I mean. So what is it that you remember?"

"Lots of things." She smiled and drew a deep breath. Even the air seemed different now. "My name. Who I am and who I was. Studying. Travelling. Gallifrey. The war. The Daleks. Did we lose the war?"

The Doctor's face was guarded. "In a manner of speaking."

The TARDIS door opened, and the blonde girl - Mickey's Rose Tyler - entered, followed by Mickey himself.

"Doctor," she said, "the grandfather clock. It's - shaking."

"Right," said the Doctor, looking grateful for the interruption. "Back to work, then." Romana allowed him to pull her to her feet. "Thing is," he said, "we didn't just drop by for a social visit. I've been tracking these temporal distortions for a week, now. Ended up here-"

"The grandfather clock."

"Precisely." He jumped out of the TARDIS, still holding her hand. "Oh, this is Rose, my best friend. And that's Mickey, her sort-of boyfriend-"

"We've met," Romana murmured.

"Nice clock, by the way. Look at that craftsmanship. I didn't know you had it in you. That's one of a kind, that is." He pulled the clock open. "Gorgeous. All the little cogs and screws... So why are you keeping a chronovore in a grandfather clock? They don't make good pets, you know." He pulled the sonic screwdriver out of his pocket, and the sight of it was like coming home. "Type III chronovore, too," he added. "Nasty. Got a death wish?"

"It was an accident, really." She watched the Doctor poke at the insides of the clock, until the frustration became too much and she plucked the sonic screwdriver from his hand. "It attacked me. I didn't even know what it was, I was terrified. I drove it into the clock, or maybe it let me drive it into the clock. That's where it's spent the last fifty years, but lately-"

"It's getting stronger," the Doctor finished.

"Exactly."

"Chronovore," said Rose softly. "It … eats time?"

"Sort of," said the Doctor. "You get a lot of different kinds. This one eats time travellers."

"Oh, great," said Mickey.

"They don't usually eat intelligent races," said Romana. "Just as humans don't normally eat – oh, dolphins. But when one does-"

"A Time Lord is like a walking banquet," the Doctor finished. Romana could feel his eyes on her as she finished her work. "Problem is, your friend there was getting a signal out."

"To his accomplices?"

"Or his government. Things have changed since you were around." His voice was carefully neutral. Romana returned his sonic screwdriver.

"It's under control for now," she said. "How strong was the signal?"

"Strong enough."

"Then it's just a matter of time?"

"Yeah."

"All right, then," she said, "we'll wait."

The Doctor looked up from her workbench, where he was examining a wristwatch she had been repairing in her spare time. He had donned a pair of thick, heavy-framed glasses that gave him an owlish look. "Been here long?"

"In this building? Since the end of the Second World War." She plucked a tool from his hand. "I arrived in 1888."

"You look very well."

"Thank you." He was sitting in her chair, so she sat on the bench above him. "I like that body, by the way."

"Do you really? It's new." He took the glasses off and added, "between you and me, I'm not sure about the nose."

"I think it's distinguished."

"It's not too narrow?"

"It suits you very well."

"Rose said I look like Jarvis Cocker. I think it was a compliment." He shook his head. "Strange girl."

"Excuse me." Rose turned around, looking half-amused. "I could go into another room if you want to talk about me."

"We could go out for pizza," said Mickey to her quietly. "Or a drink, or something. Let the aliens catch up on old times." He gave Romana a slightly accusatory look, which she ignored.

"Hold it," said the Doctor quickly, without looking at Romana. "Think I'm letting you lot go wandering, with an alien invasion pending?"

Rose grinned. "Like that's ever stopped you before."

"Yeah, well, now we're trying something new. I call it 'common sense'." He turned serious. "No wandering."

"Can we order in, then?" asked Mickey. "I don't know about you lot, but I'm starved."

"Come upstairs," said Romana wearily. "I can feed you." She led the way up the stairs, followed by the Doctor and his friends.

"Kitchen's this way, yeah?" called Mickey.

"Make yourself at home. I'll just be a moment."

She ducked into her study, closed the door and found her mobile phone. Her call was answered within seconds.

"State your name and identification." Lucy sounded bored witless. Well, she'd be wide awake in a few seconds…

"Anna Chapman." The alias still seemed more real than her own name. "Eight-seven-two-nine-alpha-zero-four." Beneath the door, she saw a shadow move, and she said softly, "please notify Command of a potential invasion of humanoid chronovores."

To Lucy's credit, she sounded almost natural as she said, "Do you have any more details?"

"Not at this moment. Also, we have a Code 9."

"A Code … the Doctor? Where?"

My home, unfortunately. "Not important. I'll make a full report as soon as I'm able. For now, have Command – oh, they should know the routine by now." She hit the end button, set the phone to silent and put it in her pocket.

Opening the door again, she found the Doctor exploring her linen closet. Without the slightest trace of remorse or embarrassment he said, "Nice hiding place, but it's a bit predictable if you ask me."

"I didn't, actually." She sat down on the worn carpet and leaned against the wall, watching the Doctor open the first box and begin to strip away her carefully constructed privacy. "I saw the TARDIS in 1936, you know. It was so extraordinarily anachronistic it was almost painful to look at."

He said nothing.

"I saw it again in the sixties. I suppose that sounds silly. Police boxes were all over London back then, but I could always distinguish the TARDIS from the rest. You stayed there for a long time. Your first incarnation and your granddaughter." She played with a bit of frayed carpet. "Happy families."

The Doctor looked away.

"She liked Earth," he said.

"I followed you for a long time. Through history and rumour and outlandish theories. I didn't even know why." She pulled a long strand of loose carpet thread away from the floor. "I didn't know anything."

"Was it awful?"

"Awful? In a sense. Better than life as a Dalek prisoner. Better than being part of a war we couldn't win. I'm lucky, really." She tied the thread into a knot, then another, then another. "We're both terribly lucky."

There was a clatter at the other end of the hall, and they both looked up to find Rose standing in the doorway from the kitchen, looking uncomfortable.

"We're making eggs," she said. "Do you want any?"

"Two please," said the Doctor. "And toast. Romana?"

She shook her head. "I'm not hungry."

"Let us know if you change your mind. It's your food, after all."

Romana watched her retreat back into the kitchen.

"She seems nice," she said.

"She's lovely."

"Mickey cares about her."

"Oh, he's lovely, too." The Doctor stretched his legs out. "They're all lovely. You know me. Can't get enough of the humans. You know," his casual tone had become studied, "I always thought that if there was another Gallifreyan alive, I'd know. But here you are." He took hold of her wrist. "Double pulse and all. The TARDIS says you're a Time Lord, and you can't fool the TARDIS. But I can't feel you," he tapped his temple, "in here. Like you're only half-there. Is this what it's like for humans, do you think?"

"I don't know. I suppose so. I don't think I was a very good human."

"Here." He leaned forward and touched her temple. She held her breath, waiting for some spark of contact, but it never came.

"You see?" she said as he dropped his hand. "There's no way around it. I'm all alone in my head." The Doctor's fingers were still on her pulse. He could wrap his hand all the way around her wrist. "The Daleks spent a great deal of time extracting information from my brain. Doctor Shaw - I was told my brain has been scrambled."

"Good old Liz."

"Another of your humans. It's a wonder I don't trip over them everywhere I go. I suppose they got the presidential codes, then."

"My human friends?"

"The Daleks."

"Yeah." He wasn't meeting her eyes. "Got through the transduction barriers three days before the Feast of Rassilon. No one was ready. No one," his grip on her wrist had become unbearably tight, "believed it was possible. And the new TARDISes-"

"Could be controlled remotely by the president."

"It was over very quickly. Just took us longer to recognise it." He scratched absently at his cheek. "There was one thing the Daleks had overlooked, though."

"You?"

His grin didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. Me."

A list of names was running through her head, some attached to faces she knew as well as her own, others hazy and abstract. Councillors, scientists, guards, friends. Asking him to account for all of them would be a kind of torture, and she found, to her private relief, that she had no taste for it.

"Before I left," she said, "I visited Leela. I wanted her to be safe. It wasn't her war."

"Did you think she'd leave Gallifrey?"

"No. But I had to try." She gently loosened his grip on her wrist and wrapped her hands around his. "Andred died to protect me. He was the last of my guards."

"Leela held them off in the very last minutes. Ripped open their casings with a plasma bomb and killed them with her knife." This time, the Doctor met her eyes. "Then I hit the button."

"You."

She was not even surprised, she realised; who else would have had the courage or insanity to imagine such a solution?

His smile held no mirth whatsoever. "We won."

Romana stood up. "You're mad."

He looked up at her, his legs crossed and his hands in his lap. "Wiping the Daleks out of history seemed better than giving them complete control over the time vortex."

"Did it work?"

"No."

She waited in silence as he climbed to his feet. Then she slapped his face. The sound rang out like a shot. He took a step back, mouth open but unable to speak, his hand touching his cheek, on which the mark of her hand was clearly visible.

It was impulsive and pointless, not even satisfying. Terribly human, she thought dispassionately.

The Doctor made no further attempt to justify himself, and she appreciated it.

Turning, she found herself face to face with Mickey and Rose. Mickey's face held a mixture of concern and distrust; Rose only had eyes for the Doctor.

"Are you all right?" asked Mickey.

"I will be," she said and pushed past them.

In her kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water and drank it in a gulp, then poured a second and reached for the painkillers that UNIT had devised. There was a headache beginning; if she caught it early, it wouldn't be debilitating. Rose and Mickey had taken up residence in her living room; Rose was watching the news while Mickey set up his laptop.

Behind her, the Doctor said, "UNIT still looks after their own, I see." He picked up the plate of eggs that had been left for him and sat down at the table.

"Will you never tire of eavesdropping, Doctor?"

He looked hurt. "You make it sound like I listen at keyholes."

"I know, you're just endlessly curious and always in the right place at the right time." She put the kettle on. "Tea?"

"Thanks."

"Still drink it white?"

"Yes, but only one sugar. Are you planning to hit me again any time soon?"

"No."

"Good." He swivelled in his seat to watch her and held out his hand. He was holding the small bottle of tablets she had thought were in her pocket. Sleight of hand. How little he changed. He even looked proud of himself. "Custom job?"

"Human painkillers would have done more harm than good."

He opened the bottle and shook a tablet into his hand, and licked it. "These won't be much use in the long run, either. But I guess UNIT want their scientific adviser in good shape."

"Guess again," she said.

"Consultant for alien affairs? Resident historian? Marching band conductor?"

She put a cup of tea on the table in front of him and reclaimed her pill bottle. "Aide to the Prime Minister."

Her words came in a lull in the television's chatter, and both Rose and Mickey turned to look at her.

"Harriet Jones?" said Rose, at the same time as Mickey said, "You told me you weren't with the government."

"I wasn't, when we met. I had a change of career after the Sycorax invasion."

"Humanity's finest hour," said the Doctor.

"We can't always rely on you."

"'We'?" asked Rose.

"The people of this planet. They're not all human." Romana gritted her teeth. "Do you take issue with the Prime Minister's policies, Doctor?"

"No," he said easily, "I just think you're a bit overqualified. Lady President."

"Don't call me that," she said softly.

"Have you considered regeneration?" He leaned in closer, so the humans wouldn't hear them. "To undo the Daleks' damage, I mean."

"I don't know if I can." Her voice was barely inaudible. "My mind and memories are fractured and these headaches are debilitating, and - I'm only half a Time Lord, Doctor, and I don't know if I'll recover."

He squeezed her hand.

"I'm not ready to die yet."

"I'm not going to let you," he said.

He gave her a smile, and after a minute she returned it.

Their companionable silence was interrupted by a cracking, shattering sound downstairs, and Mickey jumped to his feet, closed his laptop and called, "They're coming."

Romana pulled her phone out of her pocket. Eleven missed calls, and another one was coming through, this time from the Prime Minister. She took it as she followed the Doctor, Mickey and Rose down the stairs.

"Prime Minister?"

"Anna? Thank heaven, I was getting worried. We have a situation."

"I know, Prime Minister, I'm on my way. Where are you?"

The floor was covered with the shattered remnants of her clock. The shards of wood crunched beneath her feet. She reached down and picked up a few pieces of crystal, tucking them into her pockets.

"Westminster Bridge. I was on my way to UNIT headquarters, but something is blocking our path. Anna, are you all right? Major Keene said-"

"I'm fine, Prime Minister, really." She followed the others into the TARDIS. "I'm on my way."

"If you can get here-"

"Don't worry." The Doctor threw the final lever and the time rotor began to move. She almost laughed. "I'll be there sooner than you think."

*

The Prime Minister's face fell as Romana emerged from the TARDIS, and she said quietly, "I suppose I don't have to ask about the Code 9, then," as the Doctor and his entourage followed.

"It's a long story," Romana said, turning to take in the scene.

The Prime Minister was accompanied by Major Keene, two UNIT soldiers she didn't know, and a handful of security men. At each end of the bridge, and lining the streets at either end, were emergency services, UNIT vehicles and a number of unmarked cars that she guessed were from MI-5. No media, thank goodness, although there were no doubt cameras in the vicinity, and the TARDIS's landing would be leaked to all the usual websites by breakfast time. A team of uniformed scientists were examining the invisible barriers at either end, but not even sound could penetrate the field. The silence was eerie in the pre-dawn light.

"Nice," said the Doctor. "Lets electronic signals through; keeps everyone else out. Or in. They've been setting this up for a long time. Morning, Prime Minister."

"Doctor," said Jones coolly. "I should have known you'd show up. Good morning, Rose, Mickey."

"Hi," said Rose. She pushed her hair out of her face and shivered. "It's so quiet. What are they waiting for?"

"And what do they want?" added Jones.

"They like to make a good entrance," said the Doctor. "And with this much organisation-"

"It will be a diplomatic vessel," Romana finished.

"That doesn't sound so bad," said Rose.

"Their diplomatic ships are also their warships," Romana explained. "Their sense of humour is slightly idiosyncratic. But that's why they're coming here, instead of--" She stopped before she could say, 'My flat' and finished, "anywhere else."

Mickey was chuckling. He stopped when he caught her eye.

"But what do they want with us?" asked the Prime Minister. "Why are they here?"

"That's ... my fault," said Romana bleakly.

"I'm looking forward to hearing your long story, Anna."

"Oh. Good."

The Prime Minister looked like she had a great deal more to say, no doubt to be delivered in the gentlest and most devastating of tones. She was interrupted by a distant droning noise. Lights had appeared in the still-dark sky, drawing closer every second.

"There's a bigger ship in orbit," Mickey said. "I saw on the UNIT site."

"What do they want from us?" the Prime Minister asked. "Doctor?"

The Doctor had moved to join Romana, leaning against the handrail. The wind was picking up with the ship's approach, and his coat was billowing out behind him.

"It's not you they want, Harriet," he said. "It's us. You're just the bait to bring us where we're meant to be."

"'Us'?"

"Romana and I."

"I don't-"

"Quiet," breathed Romana. "They're here."

The ship was drawing level with the bridge, hovering over the river. Brackish water sprayed into their faces; Romana wished she'd brought a coat, and belatedly realised she was barefoot.

"Look at those engines," said the Doctor. "Bit rubbish, aren't they?"

"We're facing down an unknown alien ship," said the Prime Minister, "and you're making fun of their ship?" She muttered something that sounded like, "Men."

"He does that," Rose said. "We're getting used to it."

"Thinks it's funny," Mickey added.

The Doctor was ignoring them both. "The police box, there's a classic design. Versatile. Not like these phasic warp engines, the fuel matrix is too unstable. The slightest problem and the whole thing slingshots back into the Vortex, taking any other ships in the area with it. Eh, Romana?"

Thick black panels on the ship's hull were drawing apart, revealing a dark interior and three figures standing in the entranceway.

"Oh yes," she said distantly, watching the chronovores advance. "Terrible design. Their planet itself is temporally unstable, so they have very little basis for comparison."

"And what," said the Prime Minister, with the air of one whose considerable patience been stretched far beyond its limits, "do they do?"

"Didn't I tell you?" asked the Doctor, all wide-eyed boyish innocence, "they eat time travellers."

"…eat them? Time travellers?"

"Maybe 'eat' isn't the right word."

Romana lost patience. "They consume time travellers, Prime Minister. They begin at the cellular level, and end with the brain. I'm told it's over very quickly for the victim."

"And a nice Time Lord," said the Doctor, "is what you might call a delicacy. They were leading hunting parties on Gallifrey before this planet existed. Of course, they found alternatives a few millennia back. I guess you lot here would call it a humane solution."

They turned back to look at the ship. The three guards were in place now, and their leader was emerging.

"Doctor," Romana said quietly, "do you think you could induce a slight problem in their engines?"

"I thought you'd never ask. Mickey, you up for a lesson in alien mechanics?"

"Got nothing else on this morning. Why not?"

"Rose, you stay with Romana. I'll call you forty-five seconds before the engines go critical. That's when you two forget about diplomacy and run."

"Be quick, Doctor," said Romana. She pulled the broken bits of crystal out of her pockets and pressed them into his hand.

"Be careful," added Rose.

Romana turned away as the TARDIS dematerialised, and concentrated on the chronovore ship. She couldn't even remember what they called themselves. Rose appeared at her side.

"So," she said offhandedly, "I guess you and the Doctor used to travel together."

"For a while. We're old friends."

"Were you and him, um-"

"Oh no," said Romana, and a mischievous impulse prompted her to add, "he's much too old for me."

"Oh." Rose bit her lip. "I hate this waiting," she said. "Why are they so slow?"

"It's an intimidation tactic."

"It's working." Rose attempted a laugh. "You'd think I'd be used to it by now."

"Fear is a survival instinct. We are their prey, after all." Romana turned to the Prime Minister. "You have to let me negotiate with them," she said. "You're not the one they want, and they won't deal with lower species."

Jones was giving her an odd look, the kind that said, What are you? But what she actually said was, "You did tell me there were more aliens than I might think living on Earth. Are you like the Doctor?"

A number of possible answers sprang to mind, none of them useful.

"Just let me be the one to speak to them. I promise you, I won't let them harm this planet."

The Prime Minister looked away. Finally she nodded.

The prow of the chronovore ship scraped against the bridge, and the leader waited expectantly.

Romana took a deep breath, straightened her spine and stepped forward. Rose followed a pace behind.

"I am Romanadvoratrelundar of Gallifrey," she said clearly. "I speak for Earth."

The leader hissed, and in a blink, it was standing on the bridge, only a foot away from her.

"Gallifrey is dead," the leader said, "and you are either stupid or mad."

"Your compatriot knew what I was. Didn't it tell you?"

"That one is an unstable element."

"Yes." To her amazement, she sounded truly bored, instead of terrified. "I gathered that from his attempt to consume me, in direct contravention of promises made millennia ago."

With a whisper, the three chronovore guards had flickered into place around them.

"You will negotiate on our ship, according to our customs," said the leader. "And we shall speak of promises made by Time Lords."

"That doesn't sound good," Rose muttered as they stepped forward.

Romana climbed up onto the bridge's handrail, and jumped lightly down onto the ship's deck. The metal was warm beneath her feet. They were herded into the long, dark cabin that formed a combined control centre, war room and negotiations chamber. There was a cool breeze blowing in from outside, but it did little to dispel the uncomfortable sensation of being surrounded entirely by predators.

She hoped the Doctor was working fast.

"Very well," she said, and her voice echoed through the room, "speak."

"Your Time War," said the leader, "nearly destroyed us." He gestured to the metal carapace that covered much of his body. "The damage to the vortex nearly destroyed our homeworld. The Daleks took one of our colonies and enslaved our people. When the colonists refused to co-operate, they were starved to death."

The leader vanished and reappeared beside Rose. "We lived up to our pact with the Time Lords. We found alternatives to the consumption of sentient life." He grabbed her by the neck. "We kept our promise." He released Rose suddenly, dropping her to the floor, and rounded on Romana. "Where were the Time Lords when our people were taken?"

"Dying," said Romana, "just like you." It was an effort to breathe normally.

"And then you - you - imprison one of our people in your crude construct. Did you think we wouldn't care?"

"It arrived on this planet with the sole purpose of consuming me. In direct defiance of our pact. Did you expect me to do nothing?" There was a note of desperation in her voice now, but she couldn't seem to control it.

"It was a criminal act. But that one was driven mad by the events of your war. As were too many of us."

"I'm sorry."

"You are as arrogant as any other of your species, Time Lord. You think we care for your apologies?"

"It's all I can offer."

"Not true," said the leader. "We are starving. Dying. You offer a great deal more than words."

"Look out!" called Rose, but Romana was already aware of the swooping presence of a dozen more chronovores, closing around her, blocking her escape.

"It's a trap," she shouted. "Run."

"What?" Rose was on her feet but not moving. "But-"

Two chronovores were holding Romana's arms, and she could already feel her cells dying. Her hearts were racing in time with her panic: Not now, not now, not now...

The mass of predators parted to make way for a newcomer, and although she could not distinguish features, she knew from this one's ragged appearance that it was the one she had imprisoned.

"Rose," she shouted - tried to shout - her voice was failing - "Rose, get out of here."

"I'm not an alien, am I?" Rose pulled a chronovore out of her path and threw it aside.

"But you've travelled through-" She broke off as the gaunt creature placed its hands on her temples, and a searing pain shot through her head. Someone was screaming in the background, and she realised it was her.

Not now, not now, not now...

Beneath her, the ship gave a shudder. Somewhere in the distance, Rose's phone began to ring.

Abruptly, the weight of the creature was thrown aside. Romana opened her eyes and tried to focus; Rose was picking herself up from the ground. She grabbed Romana by the hand and pulled her to her feet.

"Don't know about you," she said as they half-ran, half-staggered back to the entranceway and the bridge, "but I don't want to die today."

Romana couldn't speak; the world was reeling around her, and at every moment she expected to feel a chronovore hand close around her.

The ship shuddered again.

"Forty-five seconds, he said. How long's it been?"

"Eleven." She wasn't sure if Rose heard her. Perhaps she hadn't even spoken out loud. The ship was shuddering violently now, and she was intensely aware of the creatures following them. She could hear the TARDIS materialising ahead of them, on the bridge. Mickey was shouting.

They reached the bridge. Rose got a grip on the rail and held her hand out to Romana, shouting something indistinct. At the same moment, a metallic hand closed on her arm, pulling her around, sucking her dry. She kicked out blindly, losing her balance, and the rest descended.

Not now, not now, not now...

She forced her eyes open, despite the pain. The world was going grey, and it seemed unbearably wrong, that she should die so soon after finding out who she was.

Something landed on the deck beside her; she felt footsteps moving past her, fighting off the creatures. The Doctor. She wanted to tell him it was too late, and he was only putting himself in danger, but she couldn't summon the energy to speak.

And he was winning, they were retreating. Pieces of crystal glittered in his hand, reflecting the morning sun.

It was too bright. She closed her eyes again.

So this was death, she thought, and she still barely knew who she was.

Now she was being lifted. She wanted to tell him not to bother, it was too late.

If nothing else, she would die with her eyes open.

Around them, the ship vanished, and they were alone. And falling.

As the waters of the Thames closed over her head, she saw the first trace of light and energy trailing after her.

Her last thought was, Not death, then. Not now.

After that, there was nothing.

11

What's not destroyed by Time's devouring hand?  
Rev. James Bramston

  
She woke up in a soft bed, warm and dry, though smelling faintly of river water. She lay on her back with her eyes closed, taking stock. There was a familiar hum in the background: she was aboard the TARDIS. Her head was clear. There was no pain.

She opened her eyes and sat up, swinging unfamiliar legs to the floor. Her feet landed on a copy of People magazine dated from February 2010. The floor was scattered with clothes and magazines, and there was a pile of make-up on a small table.

The door opened, and Rose looked in.

"Morning," she said. "Have you been awake long?"

"A few minutes." Different voice. It would take some getting used to. She'd manage. "Is this your room?"

"Yeah." Rose closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall. "I figured regeneration was bad enough without waking up in a strange guy's bedroom. Not that the Doctor's a stranger-"

"But he's most certainly strange," Romana agreed. She stood up. "Oh. I'm tall." She realised she was clad an oversized t-shirt emblazoned with the Adidas logo, and a pair of shorts printed with neon-green frogs. "Thank you for what you did on the ship. If not for you, I might have been too damaged to regenerate."

"Oh. No problem." Rose shifted. "I didn't know that could happen. Being too damaged, I mean."

"It's easier than you think. We're not immortal."

"Yeah. He never told me that."

"Knowing the Doctor, he doesn't think to tell you any of the things you should know."

"Don't make friends with Daleks, don't overfill the dishwasher, don't be surprised when I completely change bodies. No, he never mentioned that."

"You see, he never really changes." Romana picked up a photograph of Rose in Brighton, eating ice cream with a lean, dark-eyed man in a leather jacket. They stood in front of the TARDIS, laughing.

She put it down quickly and said, "I should have a shower. I think I still smell of the Thames."

"Bathroom's down the hall, first left, second right, near the swimming pool. Clean towels are-"

"-in the steamer trunk next to the bath, I know."

Something like jealousy flashed across Rose's face, quickly concealed and masked with a smile.

"Yeah. I guess that never changes either."

Humans, Romana mused as she walked away, leaving Rose alone. They were always so young.

Down the hall was another bedroom. The door was open; glancing in, she saw Mickey, sprawled in a chair, playing with the Doctor's sonic screwdriver. He sat up when he saw her.

"Five thousand settings," he said. "Doctor said I have to know all of them before he'll show me how the TARDIS works."

"He's just stalling while he figures it out for himself. Have you been travelling with him long?"

Mickey shrugged. "A few weeks. I'll probably go home soon. Got a job and all. Just wanted to see what it was all about, this time and space thing."

"It's not a bad life."

"Maybe not for you."

"Because I'm not human?"

"You're like him. Built for it." He brooded on the sonic screwdriver. "I just don't like finding out that someone I thought I knew is an alien."

Romana sighed, cleared some dirty clothes off his other chair, and sat down.

"Most people are pretending to be something they're not."

"Most people don't have to pretend to be human."

"Well I could hardly go around telling the world I was an alien," she snapped. Her temper was shorter. Interesting. In a more reasonable tone she added, "I hardly even knew what I was."

"Yeah. I know. It's just-"

"Humans don't expect people to change their faces."

"Yeah." He tossed the sonic screwdriver in the air, narrowly missed dropping it and added, "I know you're the Doctor's friend and all, I just find it weird."

"That is more than obvious." She stood up with as much dignity as possible. "I am sorry. But I'd rather have a different face and my own mind than not know who or what I am."

She turned on her heel and left before he could answer.

Down the corridor and to her right was a spiral staircase. She ascended it, took the second left and went down a short flight of stairs. The library was just as she remembered it, a disordered mix of books from a thousand worlds. Beneath the clutter, she knew, the room was designed to mimic the Hall of Archives on Gallifrey. There was something defiant about the mess.

She walked along the shelves, absently noting titles and authors, trying not to concentrate too hard on her goal. Until - it appeared out of the corner of her eye, and she pounced. The TARDIS logbook was only as wide as her hand, but it took all of her strength to lift it from the shelf. It was thicker inside than out; it took her a long time to find the pages she wanted: the Time War, from the day she left Gallifrey for the last time.

When the Doctor found her, she was crying.

She heard him enter, and quickly wiped her eyes.

"I hope I'm not going to be weepy now," she said. "Otherwise I'm going to be very poor company for the life of this body."

He threw himself into an overstuffed armchair. "When I was young, I used to worry that I'd regenerate and become boring."

"Heaven forbid." When she was certain she had her voice under control she said, "you did the right thing."

"Er, what?"

"On Gallifrey. You did the right thing." She nodded at the book. "You made the best possible decision."

The Doctor's face was unreadable.

"I'd have done the same thing myself," she said.

He said nothing.

"Well." Romana stood up. "I should go and have that shower now."

She walked past him, and waited for a moment on the other side of the door, but he made no move to speak or follow.

In the bathroom, she washed her hair twice, scrubbed her skin with a sweet-scented soap that she presumed belonged to Rose, and finally, when she could put it off no longer, stepped out of the shower and wiped the steam off the full-length mirror.

And there she was. Tall and lanky. Pale skin and red-blonde hair, broad cheekbones and a long, generous mouth. Not a bad face, she decided. Good bones. The body was strong, and the extra inches of height would no doubt prove useful.

There was no need to wonder who she was and who she would become; after not knowing for so long, the strangeness of her body seemed inconsequential compared to being herself and knowing, down to the smallest cells of her body, that she was Romanadvoratrelundar. Last president of a dead planet, historian, scientist, traveller, sometime companion to an exiled Time Lord. And yet, she realised, she was also Anna Chapman, and Kate Eddowes, and all the other human women she had pretended to be.

She wrapped a towel around herself and went to find the wardrobe room.

She was straightening her tie when the knock came at the door, and she called, "Come in, Doctor."

"How did you know it was me?"

"Who else?"

She glanced at him in the mirror; his hands were in his pockets and he was shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"You look nice," he said. "Very Katharine Hepburn. We'll go back to the Thirties, and you can dance the foxtrot with Cary Grant."

Romana smiled to herself and said nothing.

"It's a nice regeneration all around," the Doctor continued. "Bit ginger, though. I wouldn't like that myself. But it suits you. We could make a return trip to that planet where they tried to deify you. Where was that, the Magellan Cluster?"

"It was on the edge of the Orion Nebula. Can I have this?" She held up the leather jacket she'd seen in Rose's photo. It was cool and soft, battered and worn, too large for her, but comfortable.

"Yeah, take it. Not really me."

She pulled the jacket on, checked her reflection in the mirror again - did the hair need cutting? It would do for the moment - and left the wardrobe room.

"Thank you for what you did on the ship," she said over her shoulder.

She wasn't completely certain, but she thought he might be blushing. "Well I wasn't going to let you die, was I? It was nothing. A bit of ingenuity, courage in the face of urban water networks. How about twenty-third century Rio?" He executed an unexpectedly neat samba. "Good food, good company, no alien invasions. Best possible way to recover from a regeneration."

"Doctor." They reached the console room, and she stopped to speak to him properly. "I'm sorry, Doctor, but I'm not coming with you."

He paused, blinked and said, "Really?"

"Really."

"You've been here a century."

"And I still have work to do. Assuming that I still have a job - although I suppose UNIT will find something for me to do if the Prime Minister won't have me back." She smiled at his stricken expression. "You're not the only one who can defend this planet, you know."

He was evidently unable to find anything to say; in the end, he settled for, "You know UNIT will make you pay for new ID."

"I know. It was in the contract."

"You're really staying?"

She laughed and ran a hand over the console. "You know, I don't think this old thing's designers would recognise it anymore." She knelt to get a look at the underside of the console.

"I've done some improvements."

"If you want to call them that. Of course I'm staying. For a while, at least." She grinned up at him. "You could always come and visit me. Seems like you can't go more than a few weeks without coming back to Earth."

"It's Rose, she misses her mum."

"Of course."

"And I like the food. And the music." He dropped down to join her under the console. "Isn't this cosy? Oh, the people aren't bad either."

"I've become fond of them," she agreed.

"Still going to keep that flat?"

"I've had it for sixty years. Why would I move?"

"Change of scene?"

"That will come." She crawled out and straightened up. "With time."

He followed her, wiping a non-existent mark from his suit. "You're really staying on Earth?"

"You mean, can I resist the lure of the TARDIS, travel and your particular brand of chaos?"

"That's not-"

She kissed his cheek. "You'll know when I'm ready to leave, Doctor." She squeezed his shoulder, then, impulsively, hugged him properly. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and she could feel his hearts beating. "Be safe," she whispered.

"You, too. Popular planet for invasions, this one."

"Well, it's in a good location." Reluctantly, she let him go. "Come and see me, next time you're on the planet. But call ahead before you park the TARDIS in my shop."

He held his hands out, and she took them.

"We did win, you know," he said.

"I know." She pulled away. "I'm leaving now."

He said nothing, and she turned and walked away before she could change her mind.

*

She took the long way home, savouring the novelty of seeing the world through new eyes. She bought a newspaper on the way, but the incident on Westminster Bridge rated only a column on the fifth page. Major Keene's work, she presumed.

Other than that, all she learnt from the news was that she had been unconscious for a day and a half.

When she got home, she found it quiet and empty. Her clock was still in pieces on the shop floor, the remnants of three meals still sat in the sink, and there was a cup of cold tea on the table.

Romana surveyed the flat, seeing all the things she no longer cared for, seeing all the things she wanted to change. Later, she promised herself. For the moment, she settled for changing into an old dress – too tight over the shoulders and barely reaching her knees – and going downstairs to see what could be salvaged from her clock.

Early in the evening, she was distracted from her examination of a bent cog by a knock at the door. The Doctor, she assumed, come to persuade her to change her mind. She would give him points for knocking, at least.

She opened the door and found herself facing the Prime Minister.

"Oh," she said.

The Prime Minister smiled awkwardly. "I thought we should talk," she said. She exchanged a look with the policeman escorting her. "May I come in?"

Romana stepped aside, acutely aware of her dusty hands and knees. The Prime Minister, though, was examining her face.

"It is you," she said, "isn't it? You're like the Doctor."

"Yes."

"What interesting lives your people must lead."

Romana raised her eyebrows. "Less than you might imagine."

Jones circled the shop, glancing with curiosity at the mess on the floor, although she was far too polite to voice her obvious questions.

"Anna," she began.

"My name is Romana. My real name."

"'Romana'. It's lovely."

And the charming thing was, Romana thought, that the Prime Minister truly meant it, as sincerely as she was unhappy about the news she had come to deliver.

To spare her the trouble, Romana said, "I suppose you've come to tell me I'm no longer employed by your department."

"I am sorry."

And she meant that, too.

"No, I do understand. Your people need to be beyond suspicion, and changing bodies is – well, I couldn't go back as Anna Chapman, even if I wanted to." She smiled. "And I don't really want to. It was a pleasure working for you, Prime Minister, but I can be more useful in other capacities now."

"Oh." Jones looked slightly shocked. "That was – much easier than I was expecting." She looked again at the box of broken crystal at her feet. "Perhaps it's for the best. UNIT seems quite happy to have – the full truth of your nature."

"I'm sure they are."

The Prime Minister lingered a moment, then glanced at one of the clocks on the wall. "I should be going," she said. "I'm not supposed to be here, you know."

"Yes, I gathered as much. You'll keep your next assistant busy."

Jones held out her hand. After a moment, Romana accepted it.

"Thank you," said the Prime Minister, "for all you did. I do appreciate it." She squeezed Romana's hand and disappeared into the evening, as if she'd never been there.

Romana closed the door after her and laughed until she was on the verge of tears. Then she went back to work.

*

From: m1ck3yl33t@hotmail.com  
Sent: November 4, 2007 1:16 AM  
To: m.nichols@fastnet.co.uk  
Subject: weird alien stuff

if I said I thought there were androids working at a hamburger place in south london, would you call me crazy???

just thought you might like to know. if you're still interested in that stuff.

Been home for a month now. boring, but no one's tried to kill me, eat me or sacrifice me to their gods yet.

  
From: romana@unit.mod.uk  
Sent: November 4, 2007 5:19 AM  
To: m1ck3yl33t@hotmail.com  
Subject: Re: weird alien stuff

It sounds perfectly sensible to me. Mind control via chemicals introduced into popular food. We've had suspicions for a while now, but checking for alien infiltration doesn't come under the purview of the health department.

I'll be by later today to speak to you in person. I also have an offer you might be interested in, if you're ever looking for a change in career. If you can stand working for an alien, that is. If it's any consolation, I'm almost certain that the rest of the people in the organisation are human.

Of course, working for me would no doubt bring an end to your quiet life, but that would no doubt have gotten boring eventually. One must keep busy.

Also, note new email address - the Mary Nichols alias has been officially retired.

R.

&gt; if I said I thought there were androids  
&gt; working at a hamburger place in south  
&gt; london, would you call me crazy???

&gt; just thought you might like to know. if  
&gt; you're still interested in that stuff.

&gt; Been home for a month now. boring, but  
&gt; no one's tried to kill me, eat me or sacrifice  
&gt; me to their gods yet.

  
From: m1ck3yl33t@hotmail.com  
Sent: November 4, 2007 7:23 AM  
To: romana@unit.mod.uk  
Subject: jobs and aliens

see you at lunch time then. you're buying, and I'm not having hamburgers.

if I work for you, do I have to wear a uniform?

And have you heard of something called torchwood?

M.

  
From: romana@unit.mod.uk  
Sent: November 4, 2007 8:15 AM  
To: m1ck3yl33t@hotmail.com  
Subject: Re: jobs and aliens

I'll be around at twelve sharp.

No uniforms. UNIT does employ civilian advisors. You would get your own UNIT password, though, which I understand would be a great relief to our security people.

Funnily enough, Torchwood was one of the things I was going to discuss with you over lunch…

R.

&gt; see you at lunch time then. you're  
&gt; buying, and I'm not having hamburgers.

&gt; if I work for you, do I have to wear a uniform?

&gt; And have you heard of something called torchwood?

&gt; M

end

**Author's Note:**

> Notes, Credits and Apologies
> 
> Thanks to Branwyn (aka cesario) and R. J. Anderson (aka synaesthete7) for reading this when it was a work in progress and offering advice on the final product. This would have made much less sense without them. Additionally, several people on the little_details LJ comm confirmed that Islington would make sense as a place for Romana to live, for which I was very grateful. Hugs and kisses all around.
> 
> This was all but finished in the first weeks of season 2, and I expect will be Russelled any day now.
> 
> Major Ben Keene is named on the UNIT website as giving a speech on the art of misinformation. Mickey's taking over of Clive's website comes from www.whoisdoctorwho.co.uk, along with the notion that he didn't use the virus the Doctor gave him at the end of "World War III". All the typos in Mickey's emails are intentional. (I mention this because one of my beta readers wondered.)
> 
> I apologise for the aliens, the science and the technobabble. I also apologise for not really having a handle on Rose, for not giving Harriet enough to do, for having only one gratuitous Torchwood reference, for having either not enough or too many former companions in cameos, and I particularly apologise to the people of England for the inevitable laughable mistakes I've made with geography and language.
> 
> And if you've read this far -- thank you. Your feedback is very much appreciated.
> 
> Liz  
> liz.barr @ gmail.com  
> 


End file.
